Chapter Text
Clark is slouched over his kitchen counter at four in the morning when he’s reminded of a particular event that makes him cringe and work his jaw like there’s sour candy on his tongue. It’s reflexive, really. He doesn’t mean to chew on the emotions her words still roil up, but he lets it happen.
“Clark,” Lois had begun. There was something in her voice that made him stop before he’d even closed the door behind himself. She’d walked out from the kitchen inlet then, and there was a certain look on her face that made him feel sick. He knew immediately what that expression meant. It was only visible at their lowest points when the words, “I’m not sure I can do this anymore,” had come so close to spilling out her mouth. Her face betrayed her every time she caught her tongue.
Clark had forced his shoulders into a relaxed plane and joined her on the couch without a spare word between them. She’d passed him a glass of water. He’d sipped once and then set it down. He’d never pick it up a second time.
“I know what this is,” he said. His voice shook. His hands were already clammy.
Lois pressed her hands onto his thigh. “Clark.” It was a plea that time.
“I know,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you talk. Go ahead.”
“I cherish every moment I’ve been able to share with you. I hope you still know that, even after this.” She paused, waiting. He nodded for her to continue. “It’s not easy to make a decision like this. I still love you. I love you like my best friend. But I’m not sure I can love you as anything more.”
Clark doesn’t like to remember what happened next. He’d felt crushed under the weight of everything, of being everything, of sitting in a room with the woman he’d loved like they were dying. He doesn’t like to remember. It hurts him.
Clark rubs his cheek against the cool slab in his kitchen and thinks too much about the past.
It’s not a habit of his to do this. He’s done his best to push thoughts of Lois past his conscious veil, into the dark where they only come up when she laughs a little hard at a joke Cat makes or smiles at Steve the same way she used to do so often for Clark. She’s not in love with all her coworkers, Clark knows that, but he gets jealous anyway and the veil is too paper-thin to defend against his own hurtful, prying emotions.
Clark’s got his friends and his parents, and they’ve always been enough. But recently—since he’s gotten thoughts of Lois to take the back-burner—he’s sometimes wished for something more. He’s just not sure what that ‘more’ is. There’s a hollow point somewhere in his chest that needs filling. He doesn’t know the shape of it, so he doesn’t know how to fill it, and so it keeps sinking.
Clark doesn’t need to whine about his own senseless feelings. He’s got it good in life, all things considered. Physiologically speaking, he’s got it very good, and that’s better than what many people say. He should be grateful. He is grateful.
He doesn’t have it good when it comes to the LuthorCorp article he’s supposed to be writing. It’s not shocking he’s been interested in the fate of the company after Lex’s temper tantrum of a downfall. Quite frankly, it was inevitable for Clark to become interested in the remains of Lex’s legacy.
Clark has spent the past two years wondering how Lex is holding up in Belle Reve. Again, it’s not a shocking thing: Lex almost killed him and many, many other people. Clark is always interested and always sort of afraid about Lex’s wellbeing. Lex is an interesting specimen and a disaster of a human being. That all makes him a worthy subject to study. He’s like an insect with a broken wing pulled under a microscope.
Clark rolls his face around so his other cheek is pressed against the counter. The counter is warm at this point. He’s done a lot of thinking tonight. He should stop, really. He should go to bed. He should, but there’s a rodent that’s tottering around in his mind. It’s sniffing around and strutting about and making itself very evident. It’s a hairless rat.
No, Clark tells himself. He straightens up and begins to float. Then he crosses his legs and touches his chin. He’s got more thinking to do, he figures.
Lex has been in solitary confinement for the past month. No one knows why, but it’s easy to realize that he probably just did pissy things until they had to keep him away from everyone else. Mercy Graves, the incumbent CEO of LuthorCorp, barely touched on the subject in a recent press release. The only other slice of information she gave out was that Lex would stay in solitary for the next two months—until his release. That’s another thought that Clark can’t touch on or he’ll start thinking so hard he’ll forget sleep exists.
Lex, therefore, has been isolated from the rest of society for an entire month. He also thrives in good conversations, always lighting up and taking the stage, being that natural leader that has brought LuthorCorp into the public eye from the business-casual attire Lionel Luthor dressed it in from birth. Lex’s light shines brightest in well-conducted interviews, the ones that flow like conversations. He becomes animated, passionate, yet he never talks over the interviewer. It’s masterful. He may not even realize how alive he comes, but Clark sees it. He’s never seen anyone with such palpable feelings. Even in rage, Lex comes alive in a new way.
But Lex hasn’t spoken to anyone in a month. Surely he must wish for the stimulation a mind like his craves. Clark is no stranger to Lex’s genius; he’s fought against it. He knows that Lex needs more. In a state like his, in a situation like that, surely he must long for such mental stimulation that he softens to new ideas. He must have more patience to listen. To be open-minded. Perhaps even to reform.
“Yes,” Clark declares to his empty apartment. The scene is only lit by the city outside his window. Metropolis is full of life even at this witching hour. Clark smiles to himself. Yes, indeed. Superman is going to reform Lex Luthor. Neither of them have anything to lose. This is the smartest idea he’s had since he gave up on training Krypto.
Before he does anything, he has to ensure he does his research. He floats off to bed for a scrap of sleep, mind already scheming ways he can convince Lex to trust him.
His workday begins with a tired flop into his chair, which protests the disrespect. He spends the next few minutes blindly groping its underside in search of whatever loose screw has given it such a voice. Upon finding it, he twists and twists and finds that the screw refuses to tighten.
“You look weird, Supes,” Jimmy remarks as he breezes on.
Clark stops trying, freshly humiliated.
Next he defeats his work computer’s three-month demand to change his password. He’s not sure the feature is necessary. Everyone is sure to make loud complaints in Perry’s direction whenever the reminder pops up. Perry is helpless to do anything and also complains.
Searching for Lex Luthor updates 2027 gives Clark a variety of information about LuthorCorp. It’d be great if he didn’t know everything already. Refining the search only gives him the same results. He gives up twenty minutes after he begins, which would truly be an end to a pathetic attempt at research if Jimmy didn’t reappear with more words.
Clark immediately spies his donut. “You have a donut.”
“I do,” Jimmy replies. “Break room. Perry’s being nice today. Because of Lois’s piece.”
“What about it?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Oh. She did a few interviews with some metahuman gangster locked up in Belle Reve. I think you threw him off LuthorCorp HQ. The new one. Um, duh.”
“Really?”
Jimmy’s eyebrows jump. “If you blacked out, there’s helicopter footage of the fight.”
“I—no, I did not. I meant Lois. She went to Belle Reve?”
“Oh my god, man, just talk to her already,” Jimmy complains. “Everyone can tell you two are avoiding each other.”
“I said good morning to her today.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes hard and walks away from the conversation. Clark is glad, because it was only confusing him. He mulls over Jimmy’s words as he starts his research on an exposé. Lois having visiting privileges for Belle Reve is surprising, he’ll admit. She’d always mentioned wishing she’d have better access to criminals’ perspectives back when she and Clark were together. Not only has her wish been fulfilled, but she’s had access to the most protected federal prison in the city. Clark wonders what it was like, how it felt to walk the undoubtedly utilitarian complex. Her courage must have kept her going, always keeping her appearance strong and to-the-point.
That’s what Clark isn’t sure of, when it comes to the place.
Superman is unendingly brave and strong, but only to those who don’t know him well. If he wants to manufacture a friendship with Lex Luthor of all people, Clark has to let himself be real. Lex is smart—annoyingly so—and that means the Superman front won’t work for long. It only worked two years ago because they barely interacted. The solution, then, is to be himself without revealing his identity as Clark Kent. He’s got to be the in-between, Kal-El.
At the end of the workday, he wrestles his computer to sleep and stands with anticipation simmering in his gut. After he zips home and fixes his appearance into Superman, he takes a gander at Metropolis as she breathes far below his floating form. Interior lights give her skyscrapers a heavenly glow, as if offering peeks beyond the gates. Cars and people trickle over paved routes in honeycomb formations. When he focuses, he can hear the endless chattering noise of everything alive and moving; every breathy detail delivered by a rushing businesswoman on call with her boss, every scrape of cutlery in a restaurant. Higher in the air the sounds become gentle—speech softens, keyboards clack, televisions hum. Residential buildings have purring cats, whose hearts are always set to double time, and children taking post-school naps in front of televisions set to Nickelodeon.
Metropolis lives. She will not know chaos today.
Belle Reve flanks the inside boundary of city limits. It’s one big, ugly concrete square with a fifteen foot wall flanked by sentry towers. The towers overlook the yard, which is half walkway and half short, yellow grass, as well as the grate windows overlooking the yard. The building itself is three stories high and features a square courtyard at its center with gym equipment and a small basketball court. It looks like a miserable place to visit, let alone live.
Clark’s x-ray vision reveals Lex’s presence in the southeast corner of the building. He’s in a barebones cell with a bed, a bathroom, a bookshelf, a desk, and a six-inch steel door separating him from the rest of the prison.
Clark turns in a lazy circle and finds out that exactly one sentry tower has a view of the window into Lex’s corner room. After dawdling for a few more moments, mostly because he’s unsure this is really a good idea, Clark lands gently inside of the open-air tower.
The sentry startles and drops her book. “Oh!” she exclaims. Then, “Oh?”
“Is it okay if I visit Lex Luthor?” Clark asks in lieu of his own manners. He’s got to be official, business-like, Superman-like.
“Um. I suppose not?”
Clark furrows his brow. “I’d like to visit him.”
“Okay.” The sentry nods. “You know what? You are a very nice guy.”
“Hm.”
“So instead of arresting you. I’m going to tell you to go to the front desk and fill out their visitation form.”
“I can’t,” Clark informs her, “I wouldn’t pass the background check. I have no background.”
The sentry frowns. “That is… true. Hm.”
“Hm.”
“Ah. Oh. Wait. Maybe not.”
“What was that?” Clark asks, distracted.
“I was thinking you could get in through the window.”
“Why can’t I?”
“You’d have to unbolt the bars, then re-bolt them when you leave,” the sentry explains.
“I can do that.”
“You can?”
“I should be able to, yes.”
The sentry flushes. “That does make sense. You’re Superman.”
Clark gives a what-can-you-do shrug. They look at each other for three excruciating seconds before Clark says, “I won’t do anything harmful. If there’s anything you want in return, just call for me.”
The sentry nods. “Wow, okay, yeah. Of course. Enjoy your stay?”
Clark chuckles good-naturedly before he lifts off. The sentry gasps behind him like she’s just realizing he’s really Superman, yes, and he can really fly, and the first time wasn’t a hoax. It makes him laugh a little again, more genuine.
The grate covering Lex’s window is easy enough to dismantle, and he makes sure he doesn’t drop any of the parts until he’s inside the room. He looks around the room to get his bearings he touches down on the hard floor.
Lex is sitting with his socked feet kicked up on the desk and a book in his lap. He also looks like he wants to kill Clark. “What are you doing here?” he sneers. He snaps his book shut and places it on the desk. “I didn’t realize they let visitors in through the window.”
Clark has to swallow the sudden lump of fury that coats his throat with iron. His shoulders lower, his arms drop, and he forces himself to keep that relaxed position. “Lex.”
“Yeah, you know it’s me, the fuck. Answer my question, alien.”
“Kal-El,” Clark manages. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“My name is Kal-El.”
Lex snorts. “I don’t give a fuck. Get the hell out.”
“I want to talk to you.”
Lex brings his feet down and turns his chair to face Clark. His eyes are an Arctic landscape, mean and barren. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Really?” Clark presses, putting his hands on his hips. “Because I have things I’d like to say to you.”
Lex stands so suddenly he knocks his chair over. He breezes up to Clark, plants himself inches away. There are bags under his eyes and a tiny scar on his chin. The mechanical light makes him look worn and manufactured.
“I thought… I told you… to get the hell… out of here.” He cocks a pristine microbladed brow.
“Look, I get you don’t like me. You’ve made that very clear—”
“So fuck off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
Lex emits an aggressive sigh, whirls around, and rubs his face. His back is firm and lean. “What the fuck.”
Clark asks, “Is that Nausea?”
“No, it’s Percy fucking Jackson. What the fuck else does it look like?”
“It looks like Nausea.”
“You are so stupid,” Lex seethes, turning around again. He reminds Clark of a ballerina, with all the spinning he’s done so far. Clark bites a smile away, but Lex clearly catches it. “Oh, what? Is that funny? Do you really think you’re smarter than me, and I’m just wrong?”
“No, um, I’m just surprised you read Sartre. I’ve heard he’s good.”
“Every great man reads Sartre, fool,” Lex hisses. “I bet you haven’t even read the sheet music for Hot Cross Buns.”
“Should I? Is it good?”
“No!” Lex erupts. “It’s Hot Cross Buns.”
Clark feigns confusion. “So it’s bad?”
“You’re fucking with—” Lex throws his hand up. “Of course you are. Fucking alien.”
“Don’t call me that.” The words come out of him like firespat sparks.
“What, alien? You are one, and don’t even start with your ‘I’m human too’ bullshit. It’s not gonna work on me. You’re a sick freak and a parasite to our world and I hope to god some lucky idiot out there gets his hands on enough Kryptonite to—”
Clark strides forward, takes the collar of Lex’s tank top in his fist, and pushes him back, back, back until his back hits the steel door. Lex’s heart rate spikes, and Clark hears Lex’s rushing blood and adrenaline like it’s his own. There’s a flash of red in the reflections in Lex’s irises. Clark loosens his grip and blinks the lasers out of his eyes.
“Do not.” Clark lets him go. “Don’t go there.”
He must seem serious enough for Lex to take that to heart. Lex huffs and fixes his mussed shirt, though his heart races on like he’s being chased. “I see violence is still your go-to method to get people to shut up.”
“I’m sorry,” Clark says, genuinely, because he doesn’t want to be a violent person. When there’s someone like Lex out there threatening lives, he does get violent, but never because he wants to. Never when it’s avoidable.
Lex slips back onto his chair without another word. Clark half turns to him as Lex flips his book open and resumes reading. His heart calms, closer to the healthy melody all hearts beat to at different rates, which is one of many beautiful things about life. It soothes Clark’s frayed nerves a bit.
He doesn’t try to continue the conversation, and Lex’s too busy reading—or pretending to—to pay Clark any more attention. When the view begins to get tiresome, Clark wanders over to the bookshelf and scrutinizes Lex’s collection. It’s all classic authors, though there’s a broad range of genres that has probably helped Lex keep going in this dull environment. There’s Shakespeare next to Austen and Milton beside Hesiod and Ovid. Every book is worn at the edges, and looking along their page tops he sees marks of old dog-ears. Clark reaches out to tilt a copy of Plato’s Republic.
“Don’t touch my books,” Lex says, not looking up.
Clark respects the callout, if only to get a step closer to making Lex see him for who he is. He’ll be sure to look at the books when Lex isn’t looking, though, because they really do look interesting.
When he leaves, he fixes the grate into place and flies to the heart of Metropolis for a stress-relieving fly around.
He gives Lex three days of peace before he makes his second visit. This time, he waves to the sentry. The sentry waves and gets back to reading, apparently not surprised he came back. His first visit wasn’t exactly long, so that makes sense. Clark can only hope her logic and shift schedule don’t change with time.
Lex doesn’t notice his superspeed entrance, so when Clark drops the disassembled grate, Lex does a full-body flinch accompanied by an unhealthy increase in heart rate. He swears loudly and hurls his pen at Clark.
“What the fucking fuck, Supershit?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, what? What did I say this time? Or did I breathe the wrong way?”
“I don’t like that word.”
“What word?”
“The one you just called me.”
“Supershit? That one?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, does that trigger you? Superman gets mad at people calling him stupid little nicknames instead of treating him like a god? You get teased on the playground and go crying to your mommy about them too?” Lex’s awful vindictive grin makes him look like the most triumphant man in the world even when he’s sitting down, leaning against his chair with his head rolled back, exposing the long column of his neck.
Clark blinks rapidly. He’s sure he’s several shades of ugly, angry red by now, and that only makes him more embarrassed. “I am not a—that. That word is mean and I won’t let you call me that.”
“All these rules. You are so high maintenance,” Lex huffs. “I feel bad for your harem.”
“I don’t have a harem.”
“And I pay rent.”
This confuses Clark, so he doesn’t reply. Lex gives him a look, then follows up with, “I own the LuthorCorp building. I don’t pay rent.”
“Oh,” Clark says. “That makes sense.” Then, seeking a conversation that won’t involve quite so many of Lex’s complaints and insults, Clark switches topics. “I see I disturbed your writing.” He looks at the pen at his feet, then bends over to pick it up. “Um, here.” He tosses it back onto Lex’s desk.
Lex curls his lip. “Be careful, you dimwit. That was my father’s.”
“I don’t understand. You threw it at me.”
Lex barks a mean laugh. “I wasn’t being serious. Lionel was a dick and I’m glad he’s dead.”
“What? You’re glad he’s—but that’s your pa!”
“If my pa wanted me to give a shit about him, he should’ve left me the hell alone.”
Clark doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know much of anything, really, except that he could never, never imagine saying that about his own pa. He loves his pa, looks after him like they’re best friends. Sometimes, when he takes his vacation days to reconnect with them on the farm, they are best friends. He wouldn’t give his pa up for the world—nor would he for his ma, either.
“I… um,” Clark says, feeling so incredibly out of his depth. “I can’t really tell you not to feel that way, and I don’t know enough about you to assume how your relationship with him went. So.”
Lex’s eyes wander across his desk, which is messy with all sorts of papers. “Huh. Well, I didn’t ask.”
Clark is glad he’s a patient person—when it comes to people insulting him; he doesn’t spare a second for those who come after others. He’s especially glad about that right now. Instead of capsizing another desk because of Lex’s remarkable ability to make an insult of everything, Clark trudges to the bookshelf and leans his back against it. The movement makes Lex’s lips purse, but instead of calling Clark out, he picks his abused pen up and presses it to the foremost paper on his desk.
“What’s that?” Clark says, leaning over.
“Your cape is touching my desk.”
Clark looks down at his cape. It is. “Oh.”
Lex grinds his teeth, which is a terrible sound in his sensitive ears. “Fix it.”
Since Clark should actually be trying to befriend Lex, he begrudgingly stuffs his cape behind his back. “Better?”
“You’re awful at playing nice,” Lex informs him.
“I don’t seek fights,” Clark says, not defensive at all.
“Yeah, okay. So why are you here?”
“What?”
“Why. Are you. Here.”
“To talk. Without the fights. I want to understand what led you to doing what you did.”
Lex outright cackles at that. “You—you. You want to understand me. But I’m the bad guy, aren’t I? What is there to understand? Are you seriously trying to get me to let my guard down? You’re just going to use me to get whatever it is that you want.”
“What could I ever possibly want from you?” Clark asks, puzzled.
“Power? Money? Connections? Tech? I don’t fucking know. There’s too much you could want.”
“I don’t want any of that,” Clark answers. Then he shrugs and pivots again. “Actually, there’s one thing.”
Lex throws his pen down, which is a pointless action considering he hasn’t written anything since he picked it up. “If it’ll get you to fuck off and it’s not stupid, fine.”
Clark smiles. He’s the winner now. “Nausea.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s mine,” Lex hisses.
“Oh,” Clark says. “No, no. I’d just like to talk about it with you.”
“You want to talk to me about a book I read?” Lex’s voice pitches high with disbelief.
Clark nods. “It sounds interesting. I caught a bit of the synopsis last time. And I’ve heard it’s good.” From Lois—no, not relevant, redirect.
“You want to talk to me about a book that I read.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Clark says, because he’s trying to be polite so, so hard.
“Read it yourself.”
“But I want to hear how you feel about it.”
“Why?”
Oh, dear. He’s really going to make Clark say it. Clark wants to turn into a wisp of particles and be carried to the breeze blowing softly into the room. It’s quite a nice breeze, actually. Refreshing. It helps him think about the words that have to leave his mouth.
“You’re smart,” Clark chokes out.
Lex puffs up, all smug. “I am, aren’t I.”
“And it’d be useful to have someone—knowledgeable—for book recommendations.”
“Ha!” Lex throws his head up when he makes that sound. That’s it. One big Ha!
Clark is perplexed. “What?”
Lex’s blasé expression suddenly shifts to stone. “I’ll give you that much, but don’t think I’m easily convinced. No one breaks into federal prison to get book recommendations.”
“That’s… hm. Thank you anyway,” Clark decides.
“You’re not fucking welcome,” Lex mutters. “Go find it. It’s somewhere on that shelf you’re disrespecting.”
Clark turns around so he can assess the disrespected shelf, which does not appear to be slighted at all by his attitude, but what does he know. He spies Nausea between Jane Eyre and the grim tome that is Anna Karenina, plucks it up, and delivers it to Lex’s desk.
“Not on top of the paper, you dumb fuck,” Lex complains. “The ink isn’t dry. You just ruined the whole back of it.”
“I’ll buy a new one,” Clark says, not sorry. “Why isn’t the ink dry? Is it cheap?”
Lex growls, “Be quiet. That is a luxury Italian fountain pen. The ink takes a long time to dry because this room is more humid than the Amazon fucking Rainforest because the only air that ever flows comes in from that window you use as a doorway.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Now, the book. If you fucking will.” Lex opens the book, which promptly lays almost flat against the surface of the desk. “See this? It’s been abused by stupid, uneducated prisoners who don’t know how to take care of books, so the spine is completely cracked. Do not do this.”
Clark nods, internally amused by Lex’s sudden passion.
“Yeah, another thing. Look.” He turns to a random page marked by an old dog-ear, then shoves the whole thing in Clark’s face. His manicured nail taps the dog-ear. “Do not do this. It’s like shooting a reactive dog.”
Clark reels back. “Who does that?”
“Abusers,” Lex enunciates. “Do not abuse your book. You wouldn’t kick your dog, would you?”
Clark knows quite well which one of them has already done worse to Krypto. The memory sparks a sudden flitter of anger down to disturb his heart, but he stifles it. He’s had enough time to get over his rage at the incident, cruel as it was to treat Krypto like that. Lex’s still facing the consequences of his decisions now, and that’s enough for Clark. Although he would like to confirm Lex doesn’t make a habit of abusing animals.
Lex flutters his hand and draws the book back to himself, studying it. “Anyway, this book is fine. I prefer No Exit out of Sartre’s works, but Nausea has a very distinctive ring. It’s a good intro.”
“What is it about?”
“Nausea?” Lex clicks his tongue. “You fucking liar. You didn’t read the synopsis. I’m not surprised. This must be a leap from the picture books you read.”
“I don’t—” Clark grimaces. “I don’t read children’s picture books.”
“What other kind of picture books are there?” Lex murmurs this practically to himself. “Baby picture books, maybe. What does a giraffe look like, Superbaby?”
Once again Clark finds himself stifling an immense amount of annoyance because of Lex. Lex is lucky that he’s still here at all.
“Comic books,” he grits out.
Lex snorts. “You would like comics. Christ. If I listen to any more of your inferior opinions, I might throw up all over this hideous jumpsuit.”
Clark flicks his gaze over Lex’s body. It’s a strange thing to see Lex out of his fancy suits and in something beneath even casual streetwear. The white top he’s wearing under the unzipped upper portion of the jumpsuit adds a domestic flair to the getup, somehow. Despite being in literal prison garb, Lex doesn’t look bad. If anything, he looks more approachable, less clean-cut and absolutist. Less cruel.
Clark’s eyes stray to the papers scattered across Lex’s desk. It’s a surprisingly messy scene given what he knows of the man, but this is an inevitable result of being locked in the same room for a month. The papers are all handwritten letters, and Clark gets the distinct impression that Lex is writing them all to one person. They’re numbered at the bottom like book pages and feature words too financial for Clark to bother interpreting.
“Don’t even think about leaking that to the press,” Lex says in a warning tone.
“Why would I do that?”
“They’re packed with business advice. Unless you can’t tell what that looks like. Your suit has been looking shoddy recently, so I doubt you know much about finances.”
“It’s not shoddy,” Clark protests. “It’s just gotten stained. I think the waterproofing is wearing off. If that’s how it works.”
“Waterproofed clothes are most effective when they’re made out of a certain kind of material. Not coated in some weird shit.”
“I think it’s a spray,” Clark replies. “I can afford it, anyhow, I just don’t feel like buying something new when my suit right now works fine.”
“Yeah, don’t come to me for advice on the market.”
“I don’t trade stocks.”
“You can’t even own them,” Lex says with misguided confidence. Since Clark isn’t fond of implying he has a separate human life that gets him by just fine, he ignores that.
“Is all that for Mercy?” he asks instead.
“Yes. You know her?”
“Just the basics.”
Lex’s winter eyes narrow. He regards Clark with a bit more skepticism than usual. The moment becomes thick with tension as Lex looks him up and down. Clark feels like a horse at an auction, surrounded by eyes, so many eyes.
“Don’t approach her.”
That breaks their odd standoff.
“I would never,” Clark vows. “I haven’t even thought of it. She hasn’t done anything.”
“Yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You don’t trust her not to do anything.”
Clark fists his hand, flexes the knuckles as he squeezes tight.
“That’s what I thought,” Lex says, sitting back. “She’s evil to you because I’m evil to you. That’s how it is with you.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t fucking lie.”
Clark’s next exhale comes out as a frosty mist. “Fine. Fine.” He paces in a circle. “I just, just—I’m trying to understand you, Lex. And I’m trying not to judge her based on my feelings about you. She seems interested in LuthorCorp’s commercial success, which is fine as long as she isn’t doing things that I need to know about.”
“You don’t need to know about anything,” Luthor sneers. Then, shifting: “I’m done with that.”
Clark freezes in place. “You’re done with?”
“The stupid obsession,” Lex says impatiently. “If I wanted to, I’d be out here in a flash. Mercy gave me a talking to before I could even start planning my escape. Made me promise to stay the whole sentence and forget about you.”
“But you still hate me.”
“Again, Superman, if I really hated you anymore, I’d have broken out of here and made another clone. A better one.”
“How do you feel about me now?”
Lex looks him up and down in a way that makes Clark feel incredibly naked and sort of warm. “You’re a dull-witted buffoon. You don’t deserve your powers. It would’ve been better if you’d never reached Earth. Is that enough for you to take the hint?”
It’s not. If anything, Lex’s words have only empowered Clark. Now he knows Lex can change. Has changed. Clark wants that to continue. He wants to see what’s nudged Lex along the theoretical horseshoe to a position sound enough for Lex to admit he’s chosen to stay imprisoned. That’s progress. That’s real progress, and Clark is satisfied with that knowledge.
“I should go,” Clark says with a grin.
“Finally,” Lex declares.
“Have a nice day.” Clark gathers the disassembled grate and turns to give one final nod. Lex doesn’t reply. Clark couldn’t care less about that. Lex has just told him that he’s had a vital change. Lex doesn’t know why that’s important, of course, but he sure will feel it. This is fantastic.
The last time Clark went to a bookstore, he was attending college in a different part of the city. There, all the stores were neat and had a refreshing or artificially pungent smell depending on how natural it was. They were never quite the same as the pawn shop in Smallville, which carried dusty things like farrier tools and the Book of Mormon with lavender pressed between the pages. They smelled like old life, same as all the rows of books that lined the back of the shop.
The used bookstore in Clark’s current neighborhood smells the same. He meanders aimlessly through the rows at first. The yellowed covers give the store a summer glow. He presses his fingers to a spine, then another, drags his hand across the whole row. He imagines harmless germs flouncing off him, leaving a trail of invisible presence as he moves.
His fingers stop at the first surname beginning with S. Sagan, Salinger, Sappho. There sits Sartre before SC begins. Being and Nothingness, The Age of Reason, No Exit, and Nausea, all packed tightly on the straining shelf. He doesn’t read the synopsis on the back before he checks out at the front.
Clark begins to read as soon as he gets home. Ten pages in, he flips to the front to read the introduction. It doesn’t help. He resumes, confused, and the list of questions in his mind grows. What sickness does Antoine have? Who is the Self-Taught Man? What’s so free about a forgotten street?
Lex must know. That is the only conclusion he can make. Lex has read it and can explain it to him. And since they’ll be talking about a book Lex likes, Clark’s interest should—might—increase Lex’s rating of him. Zero-point-zero-one to zero-point-zero-two. It’s foolproof, naturally.
He doesn’t bother giving Lex any more time than as long as it takes for the day to change, for him to breeze in and out of work. Before he leaves in his Superman attire, he grabs Nausea and fixes himself a quick Pulitzer-winning grin in case it fools a flattered Lex.
Lex is predictably unflattered by Clark’s arrival. His cape has swept a leaf inside, and Lex eyes it with disdain.
“You’re bringing in trash now.”
Clark is unfettered. “Detritus is important for all ecosystems.”
“I’m sure the spider in the corner will make that her new roof,” Lex deadpans. “It’s just going to get moldy in here. It doesn’t even match the rest of the floor, and it’s dirty, so—”
Clark superspeeds the leaf out the window so Lex has to quit yapping.
Lex asks, “What are you here to harass me about now?”
Clark peers at the man. Lex is sitting on his bed with a book titled Invitation to a Beheading sitting on his lap. Clark makes a noise at the sight. “That’s sort of a mean thing for a prison library to keep. Isn’t it?”
“The death penalty is illegal. Why is your book so frayed? Did you wrestle it from your dog?”
Clark cocks his wrist up. The edges are quite frayed, especially around the corners. “I’m not sure why,” he admits. “I got it second-hand.”
Lex looks amused. “Superman buys second-hand.”
“Is that surprising?.” He hopes it isn’t, anyway. He’s always bought second-hand. Department stores didn’t care much for Smallville.
“It’s not. Boy scout.”
“Okay…” Clark trails off. He adds, “It was a nice store. It had a lot of classics. You might like it.”
Lex turns a page in his book. “If you say so.”
“You really would. It was super dusty. I don’t think they rotate the selection out. It’s Benjamin’s Books on, uh, 19th and Victoria. Right by the crosswalk, on the corner. You should check it out. When they let you go.”
Lex presses his lips together. The air whooshes out his nostrils. He gives Clark a nasty glare. “Sit down and be quiet. Give me five minutes and I’ll indulge in your blabbering.”
Clark humors him. The desk chair is comfortable for a piece of prison furniture, but Lex has enough power to afford himself a properly furnished cell. Clark would bet his job at the Planet that the other prisoners have welded metal furniture and sleep in the same room they go to the bathroom. He’s seen enough from the media to know Lex’s setup isn’t normal.
If he’s honest, nothing about Lex has been particularly normal—if Lex’s normal was his behavior during their brief stint two years ago. The Lex of today seems different, calmer, less likely to lash out.
“Have you—”
Lex shushes him. He moves his pointer finger to his lips. His eyes are stuck to his book.
Clark slouches more. He hadn’t realized until now that he’s been slouching in the chair, sort of lopsided, holding on to the edge of the seat between his spread legs. With nothing more dignified to do, Clark crosses his arms and pretends nothing is awkward. In fact, it’s only awkward if he makes it, and he’ll stop making it right this instant.
After a short period of time, Lex plops the book onto the foot of the bed, where the sheets haven’t been ruffled. His eyes catch on Clark’s. “You annotate your books, Superman?”
Clark straightens. “Yes. All the time.”
Lex holds his hand out. “Give it to me.” Clark scrambles over and places his hand on Lex’s. Lex’s whole face transforms into something nasty, and he slaps Clark’s hand away. “The book, you oaf.”
Clark’s face heats up. He steps away as soon as the book leaves his grasp, pushing his back up against the bookshelf, which of course earns him another one of Lex’s faces. He watches Lex perch on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. Lex begins to flip through the book and only stops to read Clark’s annotations and highlights.
All of a sudden it feels silly to have done such a thing. Lex hasn’t been annotating his own books while Clark’s seen him, and though originally from the prison, the books are Lex’s now. He might think it’s silly to annotate. Clark doesn’t want to be judged for that, even if it’s Lex doing the judging. It’s a fun thing to do. He likes to do it. That’s enough for it to be embarrassing if anyone judges him for it.
“You’re getting there,” Lex says when he reaches the dog-eared page. He goes to smooth it out, then doesn’t.
Clark’s busy thoughts fizzle out. “Oh.”
“You’re reading too far into Antoine’s thoughts about the marquess. Nausea isn’t about class consciousness.” Lex’s fingers drum once against the book’s spine. “Don’t overthink things. Read it again after you finish your first go around. You’ll see what you’ve been missing.”
“What have I been missing?” Clark inquires.
“I’m not telling you that.”
“But I’m stuck. Where I marked the page, I’m confused.”
“About the marquess being a… lying little fop?” Lex reads. “Why did you underline that?”
“It’s funny. But, besides, Antoine is confusing throughout the scene. Why does he think the marquess owes him something? The marquess is dead.”
“Oh, I don’t know, because he wants to be special to the marquess? Ridiculous, if you ask me,” Lex mutters. “Antoine’s whole thing is ridiculous. It makes no sense for him to write about a man he hates. His friendship with the Self-Taught Man is nonsensical too, except it means Antoine can talk to someone who’s even crazier than the marquess, who he can’t even talk to in the first place.”
“The Self-Taught Man is different from everyone else Antoine knows. I think it makes sense.” Clark mirrors Lex’s position and starts to move his hands, shaping a river in the air before him. “Antoine describes the flow of crowds like it’s one or two moving organisms. Life is dull, and the Self-Taught Man stands out freely like a rock. Why would Antoine, who’s so disgusted with the regular world, not approach the Self-Taught Man for hope?”
Lex shakes his head. “You’re misunderstanding their relationship. Antoine studies the Self-Taught Man the same way he studies the marquess. There’s no hope involved in any of it. It’s more like—the Self-Taught Man gets to yammer on to someone who will listen even if they think he’s ridiculous, and Antoine gets to learn about someone different from him, someone who has too much hope, who’s never actually going to break free from the river even though he thinks he has. The Self-Taught Man represents someone who seeks freedom and adventure without understanding what it is.”
“So what’s the correct way to define either of those?” Clark asks, leaning forward more. “It can’t be that only Antoine knows.”
“Antoine doesn’t know. He’s still trying to find out. The whole idea is enough for him to fill a journal about it.” Lex shrugs. “What’s freedom to you? What’s adventure?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but Clark still ponders his answer. He isn’t sure if his definition would be any different from the standard. But if he’s no different, then he’s a part of the homogeneity Antoine sees every day. If he strives for more, he becomes the Self-Taught Man, and he’ll be no better than a jester for people like Antoine, the ones who see beyond the pale.
“I don’t know,” Clark mumbles, half to himself. “This book is confusing.”
Lex gets up with a snap. He gives the book back to Clark, then stops before his desk, leans over and splays his fingers on the hardwood. His eyes scan the writing on the pages he’s left. “Read every Sartre book twice, and you’ll understand half the man. Look, here.” His thumb rests over a paragraph. Clark leans in to see, and Lex consequently leans away. “Not so close,” he says sharply. “God knows when you last washed that ragged thing.”
“I wash it every day,” Clark says defensively. It’s partially why the waterproofing has come off so soon. He moves anyway, then focuses on the writing Lex has pointed out.
Mercy, I understand your anxieties, but if the world turned for every reason other than the conservation of angular momentum, it still wouldn’t turn just to mess with you. The market goes up when it wants to and down when it wants to. Relax about every dip you see. It’s not going to get better, but it will get more tolerable the sooner you accept that we can’t fix things bigger than ourselves.
The words are touched by the frost that every one of Lex’s statements has. It gives the message an air of assuredness Clark sometimes wishes he could replicate with such ease. Even as Superman, he feels like he’s reaching for confidence he never truly holds. Lex is in prison, and yet he always speaks as if he’s sure of himself. It feels weird to be envious of someone like Lex, who seemingly has little manners and has been convinced for years of Superman’s disloyalty to the human race. Clark can’t lie about his envy now.
Lex tips his head. There’s a faint curve to his lips that isn’t for Clark. “I was thinking about Nausea when I wrote it. There’s wisdom in books. Influence. Read the right ones and your world opens up. That’s my freedom.” He glances up at Clark, and the smile disappears. His expression closes off, and all of a sudden whatever light between them is snuffed. “It’s the most freedom I can get in this place.”
Clark doesn’t like the accusation in Lex’s tone. He didn’t convict Lex, didn’t force him to do the things that got him convicted in the first place. Clark hadn’t even come to the trial, though he was publicly invited to by the cocky, lawyered-up Lex of the time. That Lex had yet to be guaranteed his years to come in Belle Reve. Though his confidence remains strong, the cockiness has surely softened. It’s in his eyes even now.
Clark could muster up offense. He could. It would do nothing but soothe his own frayed nerves, and he absolutely could. There are many things he could do—laser Lex in half, for one, though it’s only out of frustration the image is ever born. He would never do that. He knows that he shouldn’t lash out at Lex, though Lex’s accusatory tone and flat, hard eyes dare him to.
“Okay,” he sighs. “I should probably head out. Have a nice night, Lex.”
The flicker of surprise on Lex’s face disappears as quickly as it comes. Clark steps back, does a weird bow, flies out the window, fixes up the window grate in superspeed. Lex’s back is already turned by the time actually leaves. Clark hesitates there anyway.
“Hey!” a voice calls before him. He spots the sentry waving to him from her tower. She gestures for him to come closer. “What’s up with you and Lex?”
Clark tilts his head. “Not much. Why?”
“So, uh, visits gonna be a regular thing, then?” she asks. “I’ll be honest, we rotate out monthly, and there’s only a few days left before they put me inside.”
Clark’s heart staggers. He still needs to finish Nausea, then befriend Lex, then make him good. “Shoot. Is there a way I can keep visiting?”
The sentry laughs nervously. “That’s the thing. The public doesn’t know this, but Lex isn’t really in solitary confinement for a valid reason.”
“What?” Clark asks. “What, what happened? Why aren’t they letting him out?”
“So, essentially, my boss cubed—the warden—he does a lot of ground checks. We need to make sure the metahumans aren’t using their abilities because our sensors can’t catch everything. So, before, he always made a point to hover outside of Lex’s cell. As protocol requires, inmates have to keep their doors open as long as it’s a free period for them. Eventually Lex started insulting the warden and implied he had a thing for him.” She scratches her temple, visibly uncomfortable with this. “Ryker’s actually known to be a fan of yours among the staff. When Lex realized that, he started demanding to see him in his office so they could argue about you—”
Clark is flabbergasted. “About me?”
“Yeah. Um. Their arguments got very heated.” She purses her lips. “And then Ryker had enough. His visits to Lex’s cell totally stopped. But no one can just ignore Lex, because he can threaten to make public claims about the conditions here, so Ryker had to let Lex in every time. Eventually, Ryker had enough and made a deal with Lex. Basically, Lex got an upgraded cell and could borrow any of the books in the library. He just can’t leave his cell until his sentence is over, and he can only talk to Ryker if he has a real concern.”
“What on earth? How long did all this take to play out?”
“It’s been a while. Their new deal is the only thing holding this place up. Lex’s fights with Ryker pissed both of them off, and they’d end up stomping around the prison finding things to complain about. It’s been hard,” she admits, suddenly sounding very tired of all this. “Point is, I think you should find the warden, see if you can arrange some formal visitation thing with him. He has a shrine for you in his office.”
“For me?” Clark echoes. “Wow, that’s, uh. Thank you so much for telling me all this. I’m going to think about things and come back in one or two days. Is that okay? Not going to mess with anything?”
She nods. “Yep. Monday’s when we rotate out.”
“Okay. Great.” He pauses. “Why tell me this, exactly?”
“You’re Superman.” She gives him a quirky smile.
The phrase flatters Clark, but it also reminds him of Lex’s mistrust. The lashing out, the attack two years ago. What more could grate on Lex’s nerves than blind trust? A man so sure of himself wouldn’t stop to let his emotions in. Perhaps that’s what makes their reactions so different, why Lex gets volatile and Clark gets defensive. Are they the same being beneath their outer layers? Maybe. They mistrust each other equally now, and yet here Clark is. He’s doing the very thing that goes against both their thoughts. He’s addressing the mistrust in the only way he knows how—by putting faith in the unfaithful.
He visits the prison the next day. The warden turns out to be a stout man with slicked hair and a groomed mustache. Clark takes a beat in the sky to observe the man. Currently, he’s leaning over a security guard’s chair and addressing something happening on the monitors. Both their postures are relaxed. He doesn’t need enhanced hearing to understand that this is a routine checkup. In other words, Clark is safe to request a meeting with Ryker.
He waits as Ryker straightens, fiddling with the tip of his stache. He’s nodding along to the security guard’s words—something about tensions in the yard. The orange suits stand out on the dull grass. There are no active fights going on, and none of their conversations are getting heated, so he figures Ryker can fit a meeting in when he’s alone.
He searches the premises and finds the warden’s office on the third floor, which must be a restricted area, because there’s only staff milling about. Clark lowers himself to the window and lasers through the rusted latch. He pushes the window up, peeks around for Ryker. He’s heading up the stairs.
Clark throws a look back and sees the nearest sentry goggling at him. He waves before he pulls himself inside.
“Tower sev—seventeen,” the sentry stutters into his radio. “I think Superman’s here.”
“Where?” is Ryker’s demand. Clark hears it twice at the angle he’s craned his head at.
“This Ryker, sir? Looks like your office.”
“On my way. Do not engage.”
Ryker barrels into his office not ten seconds later. He’s panting from exertion. He points at Clark and says, “You stay right there, Mr. Man.” He tucks his chin close to his radio. “Don’t let a soul onto the third floor until I give the all-clear. We have a code purple seven-four-oh-five-six-one-nine dash ess-em-bee-are, ten-five. Copy?”
“Copy,” the radio replies, weary.
Ryker straightens. His hands fly about before fixing to his belt. “What can I do for you, Mr. Man, sir?”
Clark works his jaw, stops, then clears his throat. “I need to set up routine visits with Lex Luthor.”
“We can’t do that. He’s in solitary.” Ryker shakes his head. “Not happening, no sir.”
“I’m not asking.”
“You…” Ryker’s shiver doesn’t go unnoticed. Ryker puffs his chest. “You’re the real thing.”
“And?” Clark prompts.
“I’ll think about it.” Ryker’s heart is going too fast for Clark to check for lies, but he’s sure the decision’s already been made. Ryker’s pupils are dilated. He’s giving off the lightest scent of attraction through his perspired pheromones—not that Clark wanted to know that, lord, but now he does. They’re potent. And the warden’s sweating. A lot.
“Thank you, sir.”
Ryker nods jerkily. “I’m gonna need you to fill out our standard visitation form. Since you’re a special case, just fill out whatever you want. It’s basic stuff about visitation conduct and hours. Here.” He fumbles over to his desk, yanks a drawer out of its spot, apologizes profusely, wipes his brow, squats to grab a stack of clipped paper, draws one out, and shoves it Clark’s way. “Just come here whenever you’re done. Or, uh, stay, if you want to, but it’s pretty long and I figure you have better things to do. Your choice, Mr. Man, sir.”
Clark definitely has better things to do now. He waves the paper in a random direction. “I’m gonna head out with this and come back… probably two days from now at the latest. Just to ensure it’s all well and good.” He nods once. “Thanks a lot for your trouble, sir. You put in the kind of work Metropolis needs.”
Clark does not miss the way Ryker shifts his weight. “Yes. Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
He needs to get the hey out of this office. He rushes out the window and hesitates, which must be a new habit this place is instilling into him. Instead of turning to home or to the north, he faces Lex’s cell and makes the split-second decision to pay him a visit. It’s only been a day, but Clark wants to make all the progress he can, especially when he’s not sure he's made any to begin with.
Lex is reading the latest issue of the Metropolitan, a local gossip rag. He doesn’t give Clark any attention when he comes in. Clark tosses the disassembled grate to the floor and savors the cacophony. If Lex detests the noise, he doesn’t give it away and just rolls an ankle. It’s crossed over his other ankle and perched atop the desk. Lex scratches the bridge of his nose.
Clark hovers off the ground slightly, then crosses his legs. He floats to Lex’s bed. Thinks about plopping down, then decides they’re absolutely not close enough for that. His cape brushes the neat covers anyway. Lex doesn’t even give him a look for that. Progress, see.
If Clark were a monk, he’d say time passes by like a smooth stream as he watches Lex read. The reality is—gosh, he’s bored. So incredibly bored. He doesn’t understand how Lex can sit here and do nothing when there’s so many strange things in the world. At the same time, it’s not like Lex has a choice. Clark would personally be wasting away in bed after two weeks.
Clark gets bored enough to look through Lex so he can read the magazine along with him. It’s opened to some cheap fluff about Metropolis University. Clark loves cheap fluff. More than that, that’s his old school. He went there. He hasn’t read about that place in years. Golly. There’s a techy new building in one photo, the big library with the coin museum in the other. The title of the piece is MetU hits top 20 in national rankings, and his eyes instantly trail across the paragraph beneath.
Lex turns the page before he can finish.
The noise that Clark makes is not worth describing and also justified. Lex still whips his head around like it’s a gunshot going off. He gives Clark the nastiest look made of one raised brow, one lowered brow, eyes squinted according to eyebrow placement, and a sharply slanted mouth. His thin lips are pressed together. Clark would think Lex was trying to make a funny face if he wasn’t a Luthor.
Lex turns around and continues reading. They continue the routine with an unspoken air of animosity. Lex reads faster than Clark, but it doesn’t bother Clark for some time. Rather, he brings his attention to the things he can only observe in this profound new silence. He has no interest in whatever gossip the magazine is trying to pull him into. Not when he’s been robbed of MetU and can’t be bothered to hone his vision any more to find it again.
Lex has a way of pulling his thumb across the edge of the page as he reads. Clark imagines it’s a soothing measure for the stressed ink, probably, because Lex is so particular about the condition of his books. When he pulls too far off the edge, he taps his thumb against it or runs his nail down the fore. The pages make a soft scraping noise against his skin. It tickles Clark’s ears.
Lex stops that movement and tilts his head one way. His hand goes to work the extended muscle that supports his neck. It’s no wonder he does such a thing. He probably isn’t working out in this boxy little cell. Clark doesn’t know how it feels to have aching muscles, but he understands Lex must feel it every day. No movement, no strength, no sunlight. It’s a wonder he can still be so confident with such a demeaning lifestyle.
Lex’s hand returns to the magazine. It slides, tap-scratches, slides, slides. Shh, dit-vrr, shh, shh. Just like that. Shh, shh. Clark imagines shaping his lips around the word and feeling the wind leave his mouth. He’s soothed babies like that before. Shh, shh. There, little one. It’s okay. He’s not always sure why they get handed to him. He’s far too strong, too much. His voice sounds odd at a whisper. It starts to fail. The very essence of Superman cannot coexist with those fragile creatures.
Lex turns the page.
Clark opens his mouth to speak, but his breath catches. The sudden rush of the past has given him a lead tongue. He is caught looking at the smartest man in the world. The richest in Metropolis. He’s got the blackest heart. The most potent venom. He bites. He stings. He’s tried to kill Clark. Cried when he failed. Gone through the whole process. Probably never thinks about it. Probably can’t stop thinking about it. Probably hates to fail. Probably sees red or black when things go wrong. Probably.
Clark brings his fist to his mouth and shuts his eyes. He bites his knuckle. He breathes in. Out. Alive. Living. No Ultraman. Safe. Lex’s back is turned. Clark hears the heart beneath the body. One, two, three, four: yes, it’s calm. Sixty or seventy beats per minute. Focus on that. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. How terrible it must feel to tear reality. Let its guts spill out. Witness that violent river. Clark’s done that one too. Nearly died. Didn’t die. Open your eyes. Open them, useless hunk of flesh, puppet of dead civilization, useful idiot.
Lex is turned toward him. Clark lurches. He has been caught. He exhales through his nose. It feels the same way it’s been. He’s been breathing like a bull. Probably for a whole minute. Or two. Three. Lex had to notice. Dolt.
Lex looks annoyed. Clark is ashamed but refuses to let it show. He is molasses, slow and stupid, and he has no place in this room. He will never get over things. You need to get over it at some point. No, don’t think about it. Christ, Clark, you’re being insecure. Clark, I told you to slow down. Love you too, Clark. Strained smiles, wandering eyes. Wandering, wandering, finding and keeping, holding to the chest, shh, shh. Safe and warm, tucked away. There it is. That is freedom. Clark. Clark. Clark.
The air tastes like iron. Lex’s eyes have drawn a path down to Clark’s hand. It rests on his knee. Antoine slices his own hand. It bleeds. Nothing changes. Everything exists as it always has.
Clark is sitting on the bed, somehow. I didn’t mean to, he wants to say. Please don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Clark. Clark. Clark.
“Superman,” Lex hisses. He’s standing now. His knuckles are white on the back of his chair. “Stop bleeding on my floor.”
Clark looks at his bleeding hand. He licks his teeth. Iron. Iron is abundant in space. There is iron in his body, in Lex’s. There’s not so much of a difference between them, after all. All is made of stardust.
“Superman,” Lex repeats. Like a warning. Clark could laugh. He doesn’t. He feels nauseous. There’s a thought. He needs to stop reading that book. He needs to get out of here and go to bed and never come back.
He licks dry lips. “I have the warden’s approval. He’ll let me in through the door. I’ll stop messing with your window. Sorry about that.”
He can’t bear to see the rancour on Lex’s expression, so he flees. The grate sits in Lex’s cell. But he will stay. Clark knows that for certain. Lex is kept in by the sentries, the wall. Safe, safe, safe, and Metropolis will not know chaos tomorrow.